In his garden he spent each day
With the moon at his feet, and
There he sang to the wolves as they
Prowled and preened around the trees
And they howled. Echoed, empty. Lonely
He stood steady with the pines and
As if to ask God for something
Heavy and whole as a
Brick in the belly.
In his eyes the flurries fell,
Little crystal daggers,
Under heaven he stood still
And his hair turned slate.
Sometimes you see a space and it tells a story. Gardens in particular do this for me: they prompt thoughts of growth, yes, but also of the cycle of death-life-renewal, and of melting into a more natural environment.
And sometimes that environment reflects you in ways that are more painful than productive. And sometimes you realize the seeds you planted didn’t sprout — or that you forgot to place them in the earth in the first place. And from that, sometimes you learn, but then, maybe you also yearn.
joy: it’s a funny thing. you think at first
it’s meant to burst
like fireworks in the velvet sky
but it looks more like a mountain stretching high,
cracking the air we breathe –
and it’s we who choose to stay in its midst
or to leave.
it’s happiness that’s the hummingbird,
purring with its whizzing wings,
self-satisfied with the nectar it brings,
but never sits and never sings —
just flees, sans a word.
joy. it’s a path which must be chosen. it is steady, it is frozen
between all that the monkeymind desires.
those choices common man (you, I) admires.
how could a soul ever deviate?
we’ve got to look beyond
our past — our fate.
else we’ll die as potted plants do : staring at a wall.
while cognition oft wants to kill,
If one pattern of thinking has ever kept me from moving on, it’s that of how something was supposed to be or feel. And never more so than when everlasting happiness was supposed to be the result.
I’m not actively trying to be a curmudgeon here. I like bliss. I like euphoria. They are not purposeless. Yet how sudden they are in their ebb and flow; it’s borderline cruel.
And I’ve found it to be particularly more so when it comes to putting the weight of expectation on how achievements should deliver those feelings. The ecstasy that’s supposed to be there — if success and recognition are the only end goals, and doing the thing that leads you there for its own sake is not enough — does not come.
Is ecstasy what any of us really wants most, though? What I mean is, the ‘buzz’ — the ‘rev’ — is fun. But maybe it’s not necessarily supposed to last.
I’ve decided, personally, it’s a gentle sense of well-being I actually crave: something slower in coming, and less dependent on circumstance. Yet somehow, maybe, it is more meaningful.
Maybe I’m not alone in that?
And I could call what makes it flow by its chemical name, sure, but sometimes I wonder if it — if joy — runs deeper than that.
Taking a break from the series for the moment. This is a story I wrote this morning before hearing the news of the death of one of my heroes (mine, and so many others’)–now, it seems eerily/oddly fitting. Lest we ever forget that there is no peak in life that will save us. It is so easy to forget to simply live. But maybe this will help someone (anyone) remember. I know I need the reminder often enough.
(God, but he reminded me…)
This piece is in honor and in memory of his marvelous existence. Tony, you were and are loved.
You Are Climbing
You are climbing.
And there comes a point wherein you begin to wonder: Will I ever see anything that tells me I’ve reached An Apex—if not The Apex? Will there ever be a sign? Will the vista be enough?
You keep climbing, yet you harbor this doubt in your heart.
Then, suddenly, there is no more stone shielding your eyes. The mountain face falls away. Pink clouds greet you in the belly of a pale blue sky.
And all you can summon is,
This is it? This can’t be it.
You were climbing. And now you are not climbing. How foreign it feels to you.
What to do?
You can choose to sit or stand, and to stare and linger, because the view is, admittedly, beautiful. Even if it is not the Utmost of anything.
Or, you can choose to keep going. To return to that constant sense of Up that you know so well. To, as the song puts it, see what you can see. Because maybe there is an Utmost and maybe it feels more potent and powerful than this.
Letting the crisp thin air filter through you, you decide, yes, that must be the answer.
You begin your journey once more.
Or so you think. Because as you turn to depart, to descend,
The light catches your eye in a way subtle and strange.
It is for a half of a second; no longer. But something about the colors that strike you then—
It sends you reeling.
It reminds you of a summer, years ago, where all you did was walk by the riverside and watch sunsets and read. Sometimes you painted. Sometimes you swam.
Mostly you did not, though. Mostly you embraced this—what would you call it?
How could you have been capable of that, though? It feels so near
So far away.
But that flash of Then, that memory, is yours. No doubt about that.
Once upon a time—once there was no Apex. It didn’t matter.
I wonder, are the words that cross your mind now. I wonder. Could it not-matter again. When did it even begin to.
There was a story that was told. Wasn’t there?
A myth. It should have been called what it was. Mythology. Fantasy. Fiction.
But it’s not too late. Right? You step back to where you were before, and you sit. You breathe. You watch the light move through the clouds, like a gentle waterfall. You remember.
You remember that there was someone who you loved before all of this began. That there were grounded dreams you had, dreams with shape and texture and definition, absolved of the Utmost. That there was a world beyond this mountain range, a world you wanted to see and explore.
It could be, the volleying cries of the birds seem to say. It could be again.
It is nearly time to descend; you know because the light is shifting in the direction known as Late Afternoon.
But, you think, let’s give it a minute longer. Let’s linger here. Let’s remember what that really means.
Hello; is anyone still out there? (echoes into the ether)
This space is in dire need of a refresh, isn’t it—so let’s get moving. No time to waste.
Back in May (how far back it feels), I left a story here about running. About my own evolving relationship with it, my questions about why we do it at all, and, in the simplest sense, a trail race. Concluded, closed, done. Box, meet check.
Occasionally, lately, I’ve still been pondering this conundrum of health-seeking in this as well as other spheres. Meaning, not only exercise, but also food, psychological and spiritual practices, relationships, and work habits. After recently exploring this with a friend on her blog, I still am left with the question of why so many people, mostly in the U.S., go to such lengths for so-called ultimate or perfect health.
One easier answer is this: that, on a certain level, we possess a simple desire to be well, to feel good, and to take care of the gift that is the body. It is the soul’s sole vehicle for navigating this world, after all.
Another possibility, more difficult, is this: that, perhaps, we must cope with that age-old problem of mortality somehow. That problem of not just navigating this world, but of how to actually do that. And of course, this past week (or these past months) (or this past year) (or years), this has become that much more potent; when so much is senseless, including how we live and die, running and walking and eating and stretching and so on—they are simple and they make sense.
All that in mind, it is interesting how, sometimes, this cultural concern with health can become borderline religious. Not necessarily surprising—nor is it an outright good or bad thing. Rather, it’s a curious thing, and has the potential to go in dangerous directions as well as beneficial ones.
But of course, it’s only one side of an enormous subject, and there are so many other reasons for being concerned about one’s wellbeing. So the question remains unanswered, which is frankly how I like most questions anyway.
And all of that aside, this long preamble is for an idea that might better be represented elsehow. Thus:
Between Georgia and Maine, the Appalachian Trail winds its way along the spine of the mountains, cutting through Eastern towns and highways, bringing people from one edge of their lives to the next. Between Georgia and Maine—almost smack in the middle—is Virginia—and in Virginia is McAfee Knob, an overlook that is apparently the most-photographed spot on the AT. (You may recognize it from this movie poster if you have not had the pleasure of visiting.)
McAfee Knob is just outside of Roanoke, where I went to visit an old friend and take on the trail alongside her. By which I mean this section of it, starting in Catawba and ascending to the apex in question. The whole AT? No, though that may have to be an adventure for another time.
There is not much I can say here to do justice to the state of flow in which we found ourselves. In movement, in ascent, in a criss-crossing wind through the rocks and trees and flora and fauna, there was a sense of moving closer to authenticity, to purity of thought and speech. Our words flowed as effortlessly as a river after rain, our thoughts unencumbered by the physical and mental walls that surround us from day to day.
And we sweated. The southern Virginia summer is back, in all its humid presence, and so we sweated. In so doing, we also sweated out at least a few of the hot-blooded demons trying to drag us down—the kind that try to drag you from direction.
When we reached the peak, we were immersed in blue and green: sky above, rows of trees below on the sloping Blue Ridge mountains. That old growth, humbled by time, was welcoming. We breathed it in: relieved, joyous. So far from where we started, and yet so at home.
This surprised me, feeling so at home, when I thought about it. Sometimes arriving at such a peak or point brings incredulity—a sudden sense of being thrust into the unknown. Yet this was one of those other times, when you arrive and something in your spirit settles down. It says you were meant to be there all along. The place seems to have been always waiting for you. You are here, or there, and you can believe it.
Maybe, perhaps, it is related to awe. Though rather than coming from a fearful reverence, it comes from a place of respect, one that acknowledges the obvious nature of a place’s beauty and majesty. In this case, that of the Blue Ridge, and the Appalachian trail, and southwestern Virginia’s beauty. It’s funny—I grew up driving through it often enough, yet so easily I forgot how striking it could be, this environment. Standing on that overlook was such a poignant reminder of what is here.
But it made me wonder: am I taking something for granted in this here that I know so well?
I wondered, because, for a contrast, on my first trip to Utah, which was also my first trip to a non-coastal Western state, reprieve and calm were not what I would say came over me. Rather, the sheer bigness of the sky, and the majesty of the red rocks and canyons, overwhelmed me. I was overjoyed, unable to contain neither that joy nor my enthralled girlish squeals of it.
(My apologies to Dave Blakkolb, wherever he is; he had the job of driving the car in which I, riding shotgun, did so incessantly. May your ears be at peace.)
Utah is a gorgeous state (yes yes, pun entirely intended, &c.). There’s no denying that. Yet I found it interesting that, when I visited O’ahu for the first time a few years later, it was the calm that came instead. My gut instinct was a sigh of relief: the ocean met the sky, and then they both met me, and it was as if they were expecting me all along. How kind of them to be so hospitable.
So, what changed? Did anything change? Are these reactions really so different?
Yes, the overlook was a place of rest. Yet while we hiked, everything seemed eye-catching and marvelous; verdant, green, and bright. As I write this, I am reminded of an oft-passed-around quote on living as if nothing is a miracle versus living as if everything is. (Attributed to Einstein usually, but I’m doubtful about this, just for the record. I’ve spent enough time on That’s Not Shakespeare.)
It seems maybe there is a middle place of knowing the extraordinary lives within the ordinary, and of being at peace with those extraordinary elements.
It seems simple. But simple ain’t easy. Everything ordinary seems exhausting sometimes, and I wonder: do I do this? Do I let my days be intruded upon by small marvels?
The Utah experience was one of amazement, and typical awe. I was less accustomed to what the earth had to offer then, in all its shades and shapes and varieties. Yet becoming more accustomed, surprisingly, has not meant losing this sense of joy. Rather, it’s granted the privilege of being able to appreciate beauty from a place of stability. A sustainable, un-drainable place.
Do I do this? Do I live there now, even when the marvels are smaller, less noticeable?
Am I grateful to the forests and the flowers for being there? Are we friends? Do we live alongside one another, as if both of us can belong?
Is this something some of us know how to do? And if not, how do we start to learn?
Maybe it starts in this sustainable, un-drainable place, emptied of ego and full of love for what pulses with life all around us. Open to it, unafraid of it, authentic in its midst, and immersed. Inside, outside, wherever, in every circumstance. It seems simple. Maybe it is that simple.
The river is running strong in this rainy season, its rapids gushing, and its movement is so enviable, something I crave. How refreshing would it be, I wonder, if our daily energy and movement were so rampant and wild?
We cannot literally have rivers running within us, as reviving as it would be. Yet that is the kind of momentum we need. And we especially need it in the face of that certain inertia that rises like a wall when spring arrives, as the cold air dissolves and is replaced by too kneejerk of a warming, of a humid overlay.
When everything seems stagnant, how do you find it? How do you choose the movement that works for you? I mean this physically, but also emotionally, and maybe even spiritually, too.
Recently, I started to more deeply re-engage with running, my movement of choice, after an injury forced me to cut back. I sort of forced myself to get back into the swing of it by ponying up for two race registration fees. The shame of getting dropped by the fasties in a 5K is that traumatic.
(Also, aforementioned fees are ridiculously expensive lately! That happened while I wasn’t looking.)
We’re in an interesting place, running and I. For a long time our relationship was somewhat forceful/codependent, i.e. I was the codependent one who needed it, and tried to make something special happen. If you are a runner reading this, perhaps you understand. And you probably also know that all of this is entirely unintuitive considering that, typically, we first start running because it is exhilarating. Because love is really what leads to speed.
Running fast offers something not unlike the sense of power—of autonomy—that comes with the relief of outside air—there is a freedom there.
It does not come as much from recklessness, though, as it does from balance, and from paying attention to momentum and inertia. A body in motion stays in motion. A body at rest tends to stay at rest.
Lately, when it comes to running, pushing myself to the extremes I did before has been, shall we say, unrealistic. But perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that somethingin me doesn’t want to go there right now. Being extreme is cool, but unsustainable: it’s something we should definitely do, but more so in moments.
There is a strange freedom in going out in the morning to “bound” (jog?) rather than run. Or maybe, in clearer terms, to be out there and simply run instead of race myself. It’s an embrace of that old sense of effort-meets-ease. If it’s still running, it’s for different reasons.
That’s not to say it was easy to get there.
When I was in college and running was more about competition for me, I was like many an athlete in picking up a few unhealthy habits—though mine were more internal. You can get obsessed—borderline addicted—quite easily. This did not crop up immediately; it was gradual, and always mixed in with the more positive side of the sport, so it was tricky to pinpoint what exactly was going on. But I developed this constant vigilance, this layer of stress that wouldn’t go away, rooted in the idea that maybe I was not ever doing enough. Rather than acting on this idea by running too much, I did so by running too hard, and not resting enough—and overall by thinking about it way too much.
That kind of stress can affect your performance as much as physically overdoing it can. You can’t, I believe, always gauge whether someone is overtraining by how she looks, or how many miles she runs per week. If running is a mostly mental sport—90% mental, as one of my coaches put it—then how, and how much, you think about your training matters. And when those thoughts are tainted by anxiety and fear, it’s more than a little bit of a detriment.
These fears were mostly of inertia. I was a sure that, if I did not stay in motion, I would prefer entirely to rest. That if I did not run with as much intensity as my body could handle, I would turn the other way and become unable to pick myself up and go. I couldn’t take a day off unless the calendar said to. I couldn’t take training out of the forefront of my mind, because that would mean I was being lazy. I could not include people in this pursuit of so-called “greatness” and make it fun, because that would mean I was not working.
These beliefs came into full bloom during the tail end of my four years of college track, and it’s easy to see, in retrospect, the emerging pattern: that is, one of need.
I needed it. I couldn’t let it go. You could probably call that an addiction.
When I graduated, this turned into trying to grip my “career” (a term I use rather loosely) with both hands—else it would lose its meaning, and so would I. I fully intended to try and keep racing on my own terms. But in having this intention, I failed to comprehend the strength of the support that had surrounded me before. Nor, I suppose, had I wanted to, because all of this came down to avoidance. Something in me needed to avoid the truth: that I was—am—weak.
By this I mean, when we are human, we are weak. That’s it. When we do anything in an honest or vulnerable way, we show our weaknesses. And this is good. It’s necessary, but it’s certainly not easy.
Sinking into inertia is easy, though. Or at least, it happens easily. It starts with a week of late mornings where your body and mind definitely need the extra sleep, and morphs soon thereafter into two or three additional weeks of, “well, this is still happening, so that must mean I still need it. Right?”
(Rationalization is quick to respond with, “Right-o, my good fellow!”)
But the thing is, falling prey to inertia is about fear, too.
Fear that, maybe, control would slip away again if I started to constantly move again. That injury or imbalance would rear its ugly head again. Or that I would get too attached to movement and be unable, once again, to let go.
That reversal came with its own set of unintended consequences, because, though rest is important, it can also turn into less of a springboard, and more of a trap, or mire.
That’s when I had to wake up, and realize: it’s time to learn to move again. No: to move in a new way.
Not an easy lesson, by any stretch. Fear and old habits are potent. But facing down fear, thank goodness, is even more so. Because the thing is, I do truly love to run, and I am finding that there is more than one way to show it.
Sometimes you find that new sense of movement, and of vitality, by clambering through stupidly wide mud pits at an outdoors festival. Other times, it’s by admitting on the Internet or in counseling that you were once, in simplest terms, an exercise addict. And other, other times, it’s by giving yourself permission to enjoy yourself, and accept yourself, rather than try to be the best at every single thing in every single moment.
No one ever said giving up control was safe, or simple. But I’ve heard it’s worthwhile. And I’m counting on it.
If you can’t start from scratch, how do you fix a broken system? How do you shift into new practices? How do rediscover a part of you that seemed lost?
These questions echoed in the back of my mind while moving through two seemingly disparate experiences last week. It started with the Arrabon conference, a time of discussing racial and socioeconomic reconciliation when it comes to faith communities as well as the community entire. A firemaking workshop followed (held by Owlcraft Healing Ways/Blue Heron), which was a time of, frankly, learning how much I don’t know, how easy it is to ignore what your intuition knows (and how challenging that makes your life), and that I am perhaps a bit more out of touch with Nature than I realized.
How do you rediscover a part of you that seemed lost – that part of you that knows we are all connected, even when your monkey mind dwells in fear that it’s not so?
I don’t know the answers, at least not out of any place of logic, but what I have realized is that “acquiring fire” is not quite it. It’s not all about brusquely seeking out that fiery energy.
What do I mean by this? The instructors of this workshop said it best – you don’t “make” fire. You invite fire to come and be with you. And this posture informs not only the lay you set up, but also the way you do so. The climate, weather, and environment inform what of the Earth’s offerings you use.
After that, all you’re really doing is creating space.
So to me, more than anything else, the act of making and tending a fire is about awareness. What materials have you been given? How can you use them to create a hospitable place for warmth and light?
What’s interesting is, the same could be said about the topic of “race, class, and the kingdom of God” that was the focus of the conference. Reconciliation is less about making an inner fire that bids one to fight injustice and more about, instead, creating space within you for that fire to catch – because the fire alreadyexists.
It is about creating space for warmth and light to radiate from a new way of relating to people. A new way that is, actually, an old way that already exists.
And perhaps this fire is a different kind of fire than one would expect. Perhaps it is the kind that does push against injustice, yes, but from a place of understanding exactly what tools are needed to do so – the tools of narrative, of cultural context, of frameworks that are not your own. The tools of experiences from people who have already learned about this over and over again.
It is a fire that comes from a place of desiring to see the world and other people (who are not so “other,” of course) in a better way.
That’s really the only way to make these changes: a mindset of generosity. Be generous with yourself, forgive yourself for the past, and be willing to receive new experiences. Be generous with others, and what you perceive their intentions to be; be willing to make space for them and their reality in your own reality.
This seems simple but it is not always easy. For me, it is a process – a journey. But it is a journey that will be well worth making, I am certain. No matter how bruised my knuckles get while trying to strike flint with steel; no matter how bruised my heart gets in trying to strike up hard conversations.
There is a thread of love and light that draws us back to who we were, the world that once was, and I am starting to feel it draw near. Can you?
It has taken me a week to process the Women’s March. Yes, in this high-speed world I remain impossibly slow. But in this case, and from my big picture perspective of a culture on the edge of change for the better (and it is), I think that’s not a bad thing.
I had my hesitations about being part of what promised to be a big moment. But most of them stemmed, I admit, from what-ifs – worries that, even if they were valid, should simply not have been entertained.
Every what-if was a strain of one disease: fear.
There was the initial concern, related to my experience at Richmond’s March on Monument (my first such march since college), that it would be too overwhelming to handle. (Overwhelming, the Washington one certainly was.)
There was the sense that something scary or violent could happen. (Though it didn’t, there had been violence in DC the day before; the spectre was all too real.)
And then there was the worry that maybe it wouldn’t mean quite what I thought it would. That it would ring insincere, or hollow, somehow.
The latter proved to be entirely wrong, and that, I think, speaks volumes.
Here are two truths about, at least, my own experience.
First: it was incomprehensibly encouraging and eye-opening. It was the togetherness that made it so. Moments of despair over others’ suffering leads me, as it does so many of us, to feel utterly alone. This protest proved that this is not so: we are not alone. None of us is alone. No matter the struggle, no matter the suffering. It cannot be said enough.
When we feel alone, many of us (myself included) continue to isolate ourselves, for – of course – fear of others knowing how strong we are not. But there is another story we can choose to tell ourselves. That story is: when we feel alone, we decide that the medicine is love and understanding. We come alongside one another to prove that you don’t have to be alone. Then we get to stand in a shared strength that says: your sadness, confusion, and grief are mine, too. No matter what the issue at hand is. Even if there is no issue at all.
Which brings me to the second truth: the march was very physically (and at times, emotionally) uncomfortable.
I live in a highly walkable city that’s not very densely populated, in a life that rarely requires driving a car or using mass transit. Never before have I stood on a metro train so tightly packed as those we rode this weekend, or in a crowd with as little space to move. It is difficult to describe how little, but imagine being able to stand without putting weight on your feet, and you’ll get a vague idea.
Panic was my first instinct. There was so much heat and so little air. There were so many people. A disaster could be imminent, with so many people. The thought of how do I get away floated through my mind.
But then I remembered: of course. This is the point. And I, for one, have some work to do when it comes to getting this kind of uncomfortable.
Too many people – too many women – have had to live this way, in systems and structures and even families packed so tight that they can barely breathe or be. Too many people – women and men alike – have been wrongfully kept in quarters like this before, too – be it on a slave ship or concentration camp – with no choice but to keep going until they could no longer.
In short: on Saturday in DC, we were all exposed to some very extreme empathy, if we so chose to let the experience affect us.
There were, unfortunately, a few individuals nearby who were not ready to do that. There were complaints. There was a palpable dismay. It was disheartening, for a few moments. But I understand them; I do. I was there not so long ago.
But the thing is, there are costs to comfort. And to this woman, it is too late to continue to be afraid of getting uncomfortable. There are too many people who will suffer otherwise.
And frankly, more intense than the discomfort – more beautiful, and more freeing – is this sense of pride that I carry with me as I return to my regularly scheduled life. It’s strange, that this pride is so foreign and new. It feels as odd a fit as a style of overcoat I’ve never worn before. But this sense is that I am proud to be a woman.
It’s unreal. What if we were all so joyous? What if we decided that we are proud of each other?
Lately I’ve been magnetically drawn to the idea that, as humans, we need to regularly experience awe: it has a positive – even transcendent – effect on our perspectives, lives, and relationships. It’s heartening to see that this eternal truth – something poets, writers, great thinkers, and outdoorsfolk have taught us through the ages – getting more of an intellectual and scientific platform.
Awe: what is it? Per this Psychology Today article on the latest studies, it can be defined as “that sense of wonder we feel in the presence of something vast that transcends our understanding of the world.”
In literary terms, this is what is called the sublime. The sublime is the counterpart of the beautiful. It is greatness: something bigger, deeper, and more endless than anything else.
And what is most compelling about sublimity, and about awe, is that it does not necessarily have to be inspired by something physically big. No: connectedness, too, creates awe.
I’m convinced that one of the biggest contributors to hopelessness is a shrunken sense of the world. In the context of inner depression and external oppression, it’s an apparent enough symptom. Or, perhaps it is a cause; or, perhaps it is both, causing a vicious cycle of trying to escape from that gloom and failing to, something all too familiar to anyone who has experienced either depression or oppression (or both).
But seeing and trying to comprehend anything massively sublime is enough to radically alter your perspective.
This is what happens when we see the ocean after months of being landlocked, or find ourselves beneath a deeply starry sky free of city lights. Unexpectedly, knowing that we are very small – a piece of a larger puzzle, one design element in a larger framework – somehow makes life more meaningful; more manageable.
To me, mountains and oceans have this effect every time. But this symbolic act of atonement at Standing Rock also had made me realize how much beyond-ness there is, even on a daily basis.
This week, I turned 26. The gravity of that number – of moving past my mid-twenties into the late ones – was weighty. But perhaps I let it be heavier than it was. As a symbolic act, I chose to visit the town where I effectively grew up, and absorb that energy.
While there, I chose to walk along a favorite trail whose expansive view – and steepness, mind – never fails to take my breath away. As for the drive itself, somehow I had forgot about the way the mountains framed the journey, just peripherally but all the same, extraordinarily, too. The traffic I waded through, and the time it took to finally catch a glimpse, was well worth it. For what did I feel filling my heart but this true sense of awe, this sense that the tiny crowded spaces are not all there is?
For some reason, it prompted me to remember these words:
This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond –
Invisible, as Music –
But positive, as Sound –
It beckons, and it baffles –
Philosophy, dont know –
And through a Riddle, at the last –
Sagacity, must go –
To guess it, puzzles scholars –
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown –
Faith slips – and laughs, and rallies –
Blushes, if any see –
Plucks at a twig of Evidence –
And asks a Vane, the way –
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit –
Strong Hallelujahs roll –
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul –
While we don’t always recognize the exact what beyond our awe, part of its compellingness is that intangible quality. We see the mountains, and cannot help but stare at every ridge and shadow, slowly comprehending, and yet never coming close to true comprehension. It comes in waves, in moments; it washes over in its complexity, but does not stay, and that is life – to continue to seek it out in completion. Someday, perhaps.
Those miles, to me, represented a vastness that ties us together. And beyond that, the human capability of enduring even in difficult circumstances because of our connectedness to one another.
That is awe-inspiring. That is worth remembering, always.